


cadences

by koalarin



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 03:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13917990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalarin/pseuds/koalarin
Summary: Wren Atteberry and the five people who somehow always manage to barge into her bedroom, her writer's block, and her whirlwind excuse of a heart.





	cadences

i.

Wren Atteberry has planned many things for today.

The list, you see, includes: cleaning up her room, dusting off her typewriter, eating something other than various kinds of cereal, and – of course – coming up with an idea of how to continue her latest work.

(She refuses to let the god of writing slump rule her brain even longer, okay?)

The list, however, does not include being knocked behind and falling on her butt by the force of Agatha Woods, a close friend from high school days, barging into her bedroom with a box of pizza and a grocery bag filled with cartoons of guava juice in hand.

“Ouch,” Wren says and throws her piglet slipper at her in annoyance. “Ever heard of knocking before entering?”

Easily avoiding it, Agatha drops the stuffs she’s brought on the bed. “Ever heard of picking up calls and not making your friends worried? I thought you’d died or something.”

Wren lifts an eyebrow. “So your solution to my supposed death is not helping my family plan a funeral but showing up with a pizza?”

“Does it matter?” Agatha says and offers Wren a hand; she takes it. Agatha pulls her up with no trouble at all. “You’re here, alive and breathing and...”

“And what?” she grumbles as Agatha takes a good look at her profile.

“And super skinny,” she answers disappointedly. “Gosh, I’m so glad I brought pizza. You look like you’re starving.”

Taking a seat on the carpeted floor, Agatha begins arranging everything so they can hurriedly start dinner. Wren wants to say that she’s not starving, that it’s probably Agatha that’s starving because Agatha is never _not_ starving. She doesn’t though, knowing Agatha could and would deprive her from pizza if she told her that.

Wren finally settles herself beside her. The box is opened and margherita pizza stares back at them. Agatha remembers her favorite. “Don’t you have other things to do?”

Grabbing a slice, she shrugs her shoulders. “Nothing that can’t wait. I meant what I said, I had to make sure hadn’t written yourself to death. You tend to do that from time to time.”

Wren’s hand stops mid-way from grabbing her cartoon share of guava juice. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Agatha says as she eyes Wren carefully. “Is there something wrong?”

In a short span of time, Wren mulls over the pro and con of telling her about the problematic slump. Pro: Agatha could maybe give her advices or suggest ways to help her get out of it. Con: Agatha’s advices and suggestions usually make no sense.

She ends up telling her anyway. “I haven’t written anything in weeks,” she admits in a small voice.

Agatha slowly chews on her pizza. “You mean you have writer’s block?”

“Yeah,” she admits, almost ashamed with herself. “I just – I don’t know, I can’t think of anything.”

Her eyes soften in understanding and she is silent for a couple of seconds. Then, she grabs another slice of pizza before offering it to Wren.

The laugh Wren lets out is completely unintentional. “Your solution to my slump is pizza,” she remarks in amusement. “Your solution to everything is pizza.”

“You can’t think of anything because your stomach isn’t happy,” she states in a very, very Agatha manner; simply and kindly. “And have you gotten enough sleep? I’m sure your brain just needs a little more rest before it provides you the right words to your story as usual.”

Suddenly, Wren is reminded of the very reason why they are friends in the first place. Despite her shallowness at times, Agatha Woods is a bundle of optimism and positive energy that everyone can’t help but love.

(Also, maybe her advices and suggestions aren’t always that bad.)

Taking the pizza from her hand, Wren gives a small smile as she bites into it. It’s delicious. “You think so?”

She receives a bright grin in return. “I know so.”

 

  
ii.

Kadence Millard is one of those people who do literally _everything_ in an exaggerated manner.

After knowing her for eight years, Wren supposes there’s nothing about Kadence that could surprise her anymore. Not even when Kadence enters her bedroom at ten in the morning without so much as a knock, wearing a sunglasses as big as it is ridiculous and a pair of fuchsia heels that basically shouts _Look!_ when winter isn’t even completely over yet.

 _Nope_ , Wren thinks as she stares at her friend flatly. _Nothing._

“Let’s go shopping,” she announces loudly, without a _hi_ or a _hello_ or a _what’cha up to_. “We haven’t gone shopping together since forever.”

Wren almost points out that they just did it about a month ago, but immediately decides against it. There’s no use anyway.

“I’m broke,” she swiftly responses, her brain already listing a hundred other reasons not to leave her bed, much less her home.

“That’s a lie.”

“Well, I’m not made of money like you, either.” She throws an innocent smile at her friend and Kadence huffs in annoyance. “And that’s not a lie.”

“Whatever,” Kadence waves it off and eyes Wren head to toe before shaking her head softly. “Just get in the shower. God knows how much you need it.”

Wren stifles a groan as she pulls herself up from the bed. Here’s a thing about their friendship: of Kadence demanding and Wren relenting. And it’s not like Wren never tries, believe her. Fighting against Kadence needs an unbelievable amount of energy and Wren dislikes having to use hers for things that still would not go her way in the end.

“And please do a world a greater good and wash that greasy thing you call hair.”

She doesn’t bother trying to stifle the groan anymore.

In the end, she spends twenty minutes in the shower. As soon as she’s back in her room, Kadence sits her down in front of her dressing table. Wren winces when she sees her own reflection. With skin this pale and dark bags under her eyes, no wonder even her mother gets a headache just from glancing at her.

“Just noticing how terrible you actually look?” asks Kadence as she grabs a dry towel from the shelf to their left.

Wren sighs as the towel is thrown on her head, obscuring her view completely. “I really, really don’t feel like going anywhere.”

Kadence is silent as she busies herself with the task of drying Wren’s hair.

“That’s okay,” finally comes her answer after a minute of silence, voice now has a gentler edge Wren is familiar with. “Let’s just stay here and play makeover.”

“Aren’t we a little too old for that?”

“Nobody is ever too old for makeovers,” Kadence shots down her attempt at protesting. “So we’re gonna do it unless, of course, you prefer the other option.”

“What’s the other option?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer.

Throwing the towel onto the bed, Kadence picks up a brush and starts combing through Wren’s unruly hair. “Talk.”

Looking at her friend’s reflection in the mirror, she bites her bottom lip to stop herself from smirking. Kadence always does that too, offering the things she knows Wren secretly needs despite how uncomfortable it makes her.

 _It’s not like I don’t want listen_ , she once told her, _I just never know what to say. I’m not the best at this talking thing, alright? But I swear I know how to cheer people up. I promise I’ll cheer you up anyway._

Deciding to spare her this time, Wren fakes a sigh. “Don’t feel like talking, either. I guess makeover it is then.”

“Awesome,” she cheers with unnecessary enthusiasm. Her palm is thrust forward and Wren gives her the hair tonic she’s wordlessly asking.

Wren’s eyes are closed as Kadence works her magic on her hair and she’s pretty sure she’s dozing off until Kadence’s voice breaks the silence.

“Hey,” she begins. “You should ask Libby and Parker to highlight your hair again.”

Wren blinks. “What color?”

“I think ash blonde would look cool.”

Eyeing her own hair, where black blends with strikes of washed-out pink, she furrows her eyebrows as she tries to imagine the outcome. “That’s a very brave choice. I doubt it’d suit me.”

“Oh, please. You can pull off anything,” she says with a dramatic roll of eyes. When Wren doesn’t say anything in response, she continues. “You’re just that kind of girl, you know. That somehow makes everything work.”

The words jolt Wren completely awake and leave completely no traces of sleepiness in her brain. Kadence means it with the hair, she knows, but it stands for something else too. Something much bigger than that. Something to do with the way she writes and the way she does things in general. Wren smiles, her heart filled with gratitude towards her.

“Love you, Kadence,” she tells her, because it’s more fitting than just a _thank you_ and an _I get what you mean_. She thinks she probably should say those words more often because Kadence needs to know that despite how awful she is at emotion related things, she is still one of the very best people Wren has been blessed with.

“Of course,” Kadence replies easily as her fingers twirl a lock of Wren’s hair. In the mirror where their eyes meet, she beams. “How could you not?”

 

  
iii.

Of all things that one is splendid at memorizing from other people, Wren thinks their footsteps can’t be the worst choice.

She has long since learned by heart the sound of her family and friends’ footsteps. While her father’s are heavy and loud, her mother’s are soft and catlike. Her older brother, Trevor, walks with a little swagger to his steps. Kadence’s heels always go _click, click, click_ against the floor. Some people, like Libby and Agatha walk with sure and definite steps. Others, namely Finley and Jamie, her little brother, walk in a steady and comforting rhythm.

That’s why she recognizes the careless thudding footsteps even before the person comes into view. The only warning he gives her is a simple _I’m coming in, assnut!_

Knowing it’s only Parker, she doesn’t bother moving from her hanging upside down position on the edge of her bed.

“Hey,” Parker says as he lets himself in. He throws his weight on her desk chair and juts his chin at her direction. “You good?”

“Not sure,” she replies truthfully, looking at him upside down. He looks funny like this. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

Parker shows her the paper bag he’s holding. _Sofia Hapjes_  is written in front of it. “Running an errand for mom. She’s craving your mother’s kaasstengels.”

Ah, understandable. Sofia Atteberry has run a dutch snack store downstairs for a very long time. Being a half dutch, her mother makes kaasstengels like nobody else’s business.

Finally deciding it’s rather troublesome if all the blood in her body rush to her head and make her dizzier than she already is, Wren pulls herself into a proper sitting position. “Do you think it’s about time for me to learn my mother’s recipe and try my luck at baking? I might just be the perfect child to run the family business.”

Parker looks at her as if she’s grown another head. He doesn’t give her a response and slowly turns his attention to the typewriter sitting on her desk. “What’s wrong with you owner, sweetie?”

_“Hey.”_

“Has she finally given up on being the world’s top best-selling author?” When his question is met with dead silence, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “I swear to God, Wren Atteberry.”

“Maybe I just don’t have it in me to become a good author,” she mumbles forlornly.

Parker looks at her in disbelief. “I hate it when you’re in a slump.”

“Who told you?” she asks in mild confusion.

“As if I needed someone to,” he snaps at her, genuinely looking aghast. “I’m your best friend. I just _know_. Besides, you’re always like this whenever you get into a slump.”

“Like _what?_ ”

“Tragically dramatic.”

Huffing in annoyance, she lies back on her bed and stares at the ceiling. She refuses to acknowledge the fact that she can be _tragically dramatic_ at certain times. No, the suitable term is just _unsure_.

Wren is about to say this out loud when Parker’s voice makes her shut her mouth back.

“She’s a good author, isn’t she?”

Turning to look at him in surprised, she finds her best friend petting her typewriter gently. She has half the mind to tell him to quit it but somehow, she doesn’t. Instead, she listens carefully.

“Well, she’s a bit too quirky and true, her writing gets messy sometimes because she likes to put all her ideas in just one place. But it’s a shame she always undersells herself, isn’t it?”

Wren has no answer to that, and – as expected – neither does the typewriter.

He continues anyway. “Do you know how much she has grown? From her first work until now, don’t you think she just keeps getting better and better? What am I talking about, of course, you know. You’re the one who has been there all along.

“That’s why you need to keep taking good care of her, okay? You know what she’s like. There’s no way she’ll ever give up on being the world’s top best-selling author. Not even in a million years. She never means it either whenever she says things like trying her luck on baking. God, she’s useless in the kitchen. I don’t even know why she bothe—”

“Thanks a lot, Parker,” Wren cuts him off, glaring fiercely for reminding her how badly she and kitchens get along.

“Anytime,” he replies cheekily and then the sound his laughter fills the room. Her scowling lips gradually melt into a resigned smile and she lets her own soft laughter mixed with Parker’s carefree one.

When they finally manage to calm down, Wren tries again, with softness and gratefulness touching her voice. “Thanks a lot, Parker.”

He doesn’t say anything this time, but he reaches his hand out and gently pats her head, much like he did to her typewriter.

 

  
iv.

There are three boxes in Wren’s life. Each one of them says _right, wrong,_ and _unclear._

Wren has always been good at listening. She always listens to people’s words and sayings, picks them apart to see whether or not they have hidden meanings, and takes them into consideration. Then, she puts them where they belong. _Right_ contains a lot of advices from a lot of people. _Wrong_ involves ridiculous stereotypes – mostly from her teenage years. _Unclear_ has a lot of mysteries she has yet to solve, things that need more data.

A specific one that she often hears: _There’s nobody in this world who understands you better than yourself._

If this was before, she would’ve easily put it in the _right_ box. Wren was a lone wolf as a child and she spent years accepting the fact that maybe nobody would ever look past her indifference mask.

(Read: a human’s behavior is no more than what one determines to be.)

But this, now, is after. After middle school and high school and college. After becoming more and more outspoken each day and meeting more and more people and finding the ones that truly want to be in her life, not just because they are bound by situations and environment.

An example: Libby Jamison.

(Also, read: a close friend that is able to see past her facades and detect the lies behind her words 85% of the time.)

This, now, she’s not very sure. Because while she knows it definitely isn’t meant to be in the _right_ box, it hasn’t been proven contradictory enough to be thrown into the _wrong_ one.

So,  _There’s nobody in this world who understands you better than yourself_ has been stuck in the _unclear_ box for quite a while.

At least, until the day she wakes up from a nap to find the said friend lounging on the same bed she’s sleeping in, reading a copy of Peter Pan which she recognizes as hers.

Libby glances as Wren slowly detangles herself from the pull of sleep. “Hey.”

“Mama let you in?”

“Jamie,” she corrects as she flips a page. Wren notices all the curtains in her room are being pulled back, letting the sunlight illuminate everything in hue of pink and orange. Libby’s doing, she guesses. “Wanna go outside?”

Wren frowns. “It’s still too cold.”

“True,” she agrees, tone soft and a bit more careful than usual. “But a change of scenery might do you good.”

“Doubt it.”

“Oh, come on,” she says and nudges Wren with her elbow. “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

Sighing, Wren gets off the bed slowly and walks to her desk. Her typewriter is still there, turquoise basked in sunlight. It looks prettier than usual. “How do you know?”

“Other than the fact you’re ignoring my messages?” Libby closes the book and puts it on the bedside table. “Your desk is way too tidy.”

Wren runs her fingers on the typewriter. A present she received from her grandmama on her twelve birthday, before she even learned the joy of writing. An old thing she treasures more than anything. “It’s going nowhere.”

“It’s going _somewhere_ ,” her friend corrects patiently. “So what if it takes a little longer than your previous works? All gets lost from time to time. All gets found in the end.”

She sighs, a small tired thing. “I just–,” she abruptly stops and looks at Libby. “What if it turns out so bad nobody wants to read it?”

Libby, sitting cross-legged on her bed, blinks owlishly. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” Wren tells her defensively.

“It won’t.”

“But, _what if?_ ”

“I’m gonna read it anyway.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re my friend.”

“No,” Libby throws back at her boldly. “I’m saying this because I’m a fan of your works.”

The statement catches Wren off-guard and this time, it’s her time to blink. “You mean that?”

Shaking her head in disbelief at her reaction, Libby clears her throat before saying in pure honesty, “If there’s ever a person born to write, then it’s you, stupid.”

Wren’s legs almost give up and she lowers herself to the floor, feeling like she might cry any second now.

“Yeah?” Wren’s voice is still as small and hesitant even in her own ears, but there’s a touch of self-esteem she thinks she has lost. _All gets lost from time to time. All gets found in the end._

“Yeah.” Libby pushes herself off the bed and moves for the bookshelf. She skims Wren’s collection of books for a solid ten seconds before finally finding the one she’s been looking for. She takes it out carefully and puts it on Wren’s head as she walks back to the bed. Falling almost immediately, Wren’s hand is there to catch it. The Book Thief.

She turns to look at Libby with her eyebrows furrowed. “I’m not really up for reading.”

Libby has a flat look on her face, as if she’s just heard a really unfunny joke. “Of course you are. Don’t lie. You’re always up for The Book Thief.”

With that, she grabs the Peter Pan she’s abandoned and continues where she’s left it at. Wren sits in complete silence and stares at the book in her hand. It’s one of her favorites, though she’s fairly sure she never told Libby that.

Wren huffs at the mystery and slowly shakes her head, opting to just let it go. _How Libby knows,_ she tells herself as she opens the first chapter without realizing, _is just something that Libby does._

Her hand freezes all of the sudden. The hardcover front trapping her fingers is both light and heavy at the same time.

Wren thinks, stops, blinks, and thinks again: _There’s nobody in this world who understands you better than yourself._

And then, she smiles.

She takes it from the _unclear_ box and places it to the one that says _wrong._

 

  
v.

 **Wren (9:02 PM):**  
Are you there

 **Finley (9:04 PM):**  
I am  
Wow, you're finally talking to me  
Is everything okay?

 **Finley (9:08 PM):**  
Wren?

_9:11 PM: (2) Missed calls Finley_

Wren stares at her phone and sighs for the umpteenth time.

Truth be told, she's not even sure why she texted him. She likes to think that it's half because he's her assistant and editor. He deserves to know and he deserves better than a sulking brat who hasn't written anything for more than a month. The other half part of it being guilt for ignoring his calls and messages and not opening her door whenever he knocks on it.

She tells her that those are the only reasons her heart thrums a tad faster when she hears his car pulls up on the driveway twenty minutes later. That the reason why her soul hums pleasantly is because she's glad he hasn't gotten tired of working with her yet.

(Wren is old enough to know she's lying to herself. She just misses him, s'all.)

Drumming her fingers against her desk, she waits patiently for the long-awaited knock on her bedroom door. Finley is a guy with the perfect mannerism; a reason why her family is extremely fond of him. Whenever he comes by, he always makes sure to exchange pleasantries with her parents and brothers first before he goes to find her.

 _It's just reassuring,_ her mother said one night after he'd gone home from another attempt to check up on her, _to know that such a great boy is taking care of you._

Wren rolled her eyes and firmly replied, _He's my assistant and editor, Ma. He's just doing his job._

(Again, Wren is old enough to know she's lying to herself. She's pretty sure Finley is as infatuated with her as she is with him. But of course, she won't tell anyone about that.

 _Yet,_ she adds mentally.)

The knock, however, never comes. Instead, he opens the door without any warning and exhales a breath in utmost relief when he sees her casually sitting on her desk chair.

They stare at each other for a second longer before she decides to break the ice first. "That's so unlike you to just barge in like that."

He lifts an eyebrow. "You wouldn't have opened the door if I knocked anyway."

"You don't know that."

"Had to pick up the momentum or something like that," he explains as he closes the door behind him and sits on the edge of her bed. He's so close. If she spins her chair to face him, their knees would only be centimeters apart from touching. "Wouldn't want you to change your mind."

Wren looks at him sceptically. "From what?"

"From talking to me," he answers carefully. "I hadn't heard from you in a while, Wren. Imagine my reaction when you texted."

Stifling a sigh, she looks away. "Sorry," she whispers lowly, and means it. "I just – sorry, your boss must be chewing you out."

A series of laughter almost makes her jump out of her skin. At the empty glare she sends him, he channels them to mere chuckles. Wren tries her best to ignore the heat coloring her cheeks. She won't ever tell him this but she really, really, _really_ likes the smooth sound of his laughter.

Barely two minutes passed since he's been here and she's already a mess. Goodness, she has it _so_ bad.

Wren barely has the time to react when the chair she's occupying is suddenly pulled towards his direction. Damn him and his long limbs. Now that she has no choice but to look at him, she switches to her best poker face.

It doesn't fool him though. He shots her a look that says _dare you try me_ before resting his elbows on knees, automatically making him much, _much_ closer that she has to subtly moves her chair behind a bit just so she doesn't have trouble breathing. If he notices, he doesn't point it out.

"A month has gone without so much of a greeting and you think my boss is my biggest concern," he remarks in pure amusement.

She worries her bottom lip. "Isn't she?"

"Heck, no," he deadpans. "Though Jenn has the tendency to get on my nerves, she's nowhere near your level. Trust me."

Wren delivers a kick to his shin and she remembers that she's wearing her bedroom slippers. It has no effect on him. He lets out a small grin, clearly enjoying their usual banter, before quickly sobering again.

"Okay, okay," he finally says, eyeing her intently. "Is there something wrong?"

"No," she immediately answers in autopilot.

_"Lies."_

Wren sighs, _again,_ but giving in the end knowing he can be persistent when he wants to be. "I just wanted to talk."

"Well, I'm here now," he tells her, patient as he has always been since day one. "I'm here, Wren, so talk to me."

Taking a deep breath, she spills it out. "I'm having a hard time writing."

He nods. "I know that much."

"And I get worried a lot. Like, _a lot_. About everything. Mostly the publishing company, and..." her voice drifts off as she looks away. "How much trouble have you gotten because of me?"

"None," he replies, not missing a beat and sincere in every way possible. "I talked to Jenn. You need time, she understands that. You're one of the company's most promising authors. Jenn would've shaven her head bald first before she ever made the stupid decision to let you go – impossible, trust me. Also, you're in _my_ care. I would pretty much choke anyone who dares to rush you."

Finley explains everything so fast, it makes her head spin in effort to follow. When she does catch up though, the only response she manages to give him is a dropped jaw.

"So," he gently continues, "don't worry too much, alright? Worry about yourself instead. Your brothers were complaining to your mother about how distant you are these days when I arri— _Wren?_ "

Realizing that she probably still has a very unattractive look on her face right now, she hurriedly tries – _tries_ – to school her expression neutral before deciding it is better to bury it in her hands instead. And then, she groans.

"Wait, what is it this time?" he asks, more than just a bit confused.

"You," she answers, voice muffled by her own hands. "You go to the end of the world for other people, you dumbass."

"Well, I'd go even further for you."

It's a slip. She knows this because the minute she turns to look at him in surprise, hands now fallen onto her lap, there's a tense look on his face, as if he can't believe he just said that either. His jaw is clenched and there's a thin blush creeping up his neck, so thin that she supposes she wouldn't have spotted it if they aren't _this_ close.

Something in her chest unravels. She blinks. "Oh."

Finley looks away as he clears his throat. She gives him all the moment he needs. And when he turns his attention back to her, his eyes are more determined and he takes one of her hands in his. He holds it loosely, as if giving her a chance to pull away anytime she wants. She doesn't.

 _This boy_ , she thinks. Fondly, _this boy._

"You need to know," he begins again, and she still can't take her eyes away from him. From the sight of this wonderful, wonderful guy sitting in front of her, whose hand is holding hers as if it's something fragile. "You need to remember that there are people looking out for you, too."

His words send warmth running throughout her body and remind her of a place. A place where her mother smiles too easily and her father sings too loudly. Where her brothers hide her boxes of cereal so she'll eat something else. Where Agatha kicks her butt for disappearing and Kadence's hugs are free and available for twenty four per seven. Where Parker cracks terrible jokes she always laughs at anyway. Where Libby promises her that she's got her back no matter what happens. Where Finley never fails to anchor her whenever she floats around too much, reminding her that _this,_ this is where she belongs.

There is a name for this feeling, she thinks. And there are words for this moments, she knows. But for the first time in a while, she feels like they won't be enough. Wren Atteberry, a master of words, fears that they won't be enough.

So she tries something else.

It's 9:47 in the evening when she kisses him softly on the cheek. A gesture that speaks so much more than just a simple gratitude if he bothers to analyze it. But Finley is not her and he simply believes that things aren't meant to be picked apart. So she presses the kiss a little longer, just to make it as clear and obvious as possible because he can be ridiculously dense sometimes. And she thinks she hears his breath hitch but she's not sure; it could be hers after all.

It's still 9:47 in the evening when she pulls away but it's a few seconds into 9:49 when his ability to speak coherently finally comes back to him.

(She tries her hardest not to make fun of him.)

_"You've got to be kidding me."_

With a familiar tilt of head, Wren smiles. "Nope."

"I can't believe this," he says, voice a mix of disbelief and mild annoyance. "I can't believe you beat me to it."

Wren laughs, the happiest sound she's made in days. "This is stupid."

He glares at her, a pair of milkyway kaledoiscope too beautiful for her to ever be afraid of. Wren is left breathless, thoughtless, and wordless for a nanosecond before everything inside of her rushes so fast she has a difficult time keeping up. She's barely aware of what he's saying – something along the lines of _no,_ you _'re stupid_ if she's not mistaken – because all of the sudden she—

"Pen," she breaths out, her voice is drown by the sound of her own blood pounding against her ears.

Finley gives her a look of surprise. "What?"

Her body moves before she even knows it. She frantically turns back to her desk and searches for a pen, all the while whisper-shouting, "Pen, pen, pen, I need a pen. Why can't I find any goddamn p—"

"Wren."

She looks up just in time to find Finley throwing a pen at her direction from across the room, where it was just lying around near her bookshelf mere seconds ago. Wren catches it mid-air. _Perfect._

Grabbing a stack of post it notes on her other hand, she wastes no time pouring her ideas onto them. Her handwriting is frantic and messy, and if this was any other day, she would've cringed at herself. But today she pays no mind to it and feels relieved instead. She removes and attaches them quickly on the bulletin board above her typewriter, arranging the many papers of yellow until they all fit into it.

Heart beating wildly against her ribcage, she takes a deep breath. And when she shakily lets it go, Finley's immediate presence beside her is a blanket so comforting and supportive.

"You've got this," he kindly encourages her and he does something that makes her close her eyes because she wants to make this moment stay with her a little longer. His lips lingers at her temple, warm and loving and everything that is Finley Sheridan.

When he pulls away, she gives him a quick uptilt of lips as a promise that there will be a time for an _us,_ for her and him and everything and nothing involving fate and destiny and serendipity.

He gives her a look so soft she wants to weep and she knows he understands. Wren feels incredibly lucky for a reason or two or maybe a lot more than that.

 _I've got this,_ she thinks to herself as she takes a seat on her desk chair and moves until she's comfortable at where she's meant to be, in front of her typewriter.

 _Please don't fail me,_ she tries telling it.

 _I won't_ , she imagines it promising her. _I won't, I won't, I won't ever._

"Okay," she says, out loud and out of the blue, because she needs all the courage she could get. She remembers all things that matter to her; too much to count, too precious to be kept in places other than her heart. She remembers why she writes in the first place and why she'll be writing for the rest of her life. Wren positions her fingers above the keys and—

_Here I go._

Tap, she begins.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

It all welcomes her home.


End file.
